Only it wasn't, not really, revealed that is, to Martin Elginbrod after his strenuous climb to the top of Arthur's Seat, discreetly pursued by Riddle Rankine, Felix Rosenstiel, Dixie and Bunty O'Hooligan, all of The Justice League of Auld Reekie, not to mention other eyes and ears in disparate parts of the Universe that just happened to be watching and listening; the Elginbrods were a sept of the MacFarlane Clan and, ever since the first Martin Elginbrod had come south from his home in Elgin – where his body was returned for burial under the headstone with it's famous inscription (look it up for yourself) - to rise to the top of the Legal Trade, Elginbrods had been one of the main powers behind the city: not for them any dreams of becoming a Deacon, Baillie, or Lord Provost, of standing for election to the Town Council or it's more recent successors, they preferred to manage their control from the shadows; Martin remembered a boy in his year at school whose father was Lord Provost and who dreamt for his son the same position, but Martin already knew that his own father owned that boy's father as, in maturity, Martin now owned that boy, the present Lord Provost; this is no flapdoodle, for in a monopsony, a market with only one buyer, the seller is caught by the throat and Martin's grip on the throats of all the men he owned was like a vice; and yet here he now sat, smoking a cigar, on the very pinnacle of the great hill which looms over the city, at the mercy of the one who owned him; the susurrous whisper of the grass in the breeze which gusted around him, the whispering grass, carried messages which he strained to catch, believing that they were of that branch of pataphysics which had guided him through his life; he knew all about Sir Parlane's mastery over Time Travel, and had his own terrifying memories of it, but had preferred to remain here, in his own lifetime, while MacFarlane and Doubleday roamed through the centuries and entertained him at their regular reunions with their tales of adventure, conquest and blood; yes, he was squeamish, always had been, always would be, but at second hand he relished the detail and was always ready to refill their glasses and elicit more; hush, there was a distant click – quite distinct from the natural whispering in the wind, and he turned to peer towards whence it had come, which was when a hand clasped his shoulder and a voice hissed into his ear: "not here, not now, too many eyes and ears," and all Rankine and Rosenstiel saw was a shimmer, like the Aurora Borealis but too close to be that, and Elginbrod was gone; they ran to the top, closely followred by the O'Hooligan twinsand the only thing that remained was a still glowing cigar on the ground where it had been dropped!

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